In Place of Death

by Craig Robertson

  ‘What’s on Hart’s record?’

  ‘Theft. Possession with intent. Assault. Handling stolen goods.’

  ‘Career criminal. Do we know who he worked for?’

  ‘Nothing official but there’s a note saying he was believed to be in the employ of the Mullen brothers.’

  Narey looked up from the photographs, briefly expecting to see that Maxwell was joking with her. ‘Mullen?’

  ‘Paul and Bobby.’

  ‘I know who they are.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. Sorry.’

  She remembered Danny Neilson’s verdict on why someone might be found in the Molendinar. A good place to hide a body, he’d said. Did the same go for the seminary and the foot of the Finnieston Crane? These two had been easily found but maybe it was a good place if you didn’t care if the bodies were eventually discovered. Maybe it was enough that they wouldn’t be found until whoever had put them there was long gone.

  The crane was far more open than the Molendinar, the Odeon or the seminary. Did it fit? She could well imagine the Mullens - or their enemies - hanging someone upside down there to make them talk or just to scare the shit out of them. And then letting go.

  ‘Whose case is it?’

  ‘DI French’s.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll call him. Thanks.’

  Maxwell hesitated and Narey could see how tense she was. ‘What is it, Becca?’

  ‘There’s more ma’am.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have found this except that I was looking for unusual locations as well as suspicious deaths. And this isn’t suspicious but I thought I’d better flag it up.’

  Narey’s pulse quickened in perfect time with her heart sinking. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The body of a homeless man was found in an abandoned building. Two days ago.’

  ‘Two days?

  ‘Yes, ma’am. David McGlashan. Aged fifty-three. Of no fixed abode. Found in the former William Cook and Son, File and Saw Works building in Houldsworth Street in Anderston. Initial post-mortem results say probable heart attack, but the body had lain there for approximately ten weeks before it was discovered so it was badly decomposed. No signs of other injury or assault.’

  Her mind flashed back to Malcolm Colvin’s mention of a homeless client who hadn’t been seen for two months. Had Colvin named the man? She didn’t think so but would have to call him.

  ‘What do we know about this guy?’

  ‘Not much, ma’am. He’s thought to have been homeless for as much as fifteen years. His only record is for a drunk and disorderly eight years ago and a disturbance of the peace last year.’

  ‘What do we know about the saw works?’

  ‘It closed in the late nineties, has lain dormant since then. It is a known urbexing site.’

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘Definitely. So is the seminary and the crane. There’s a website.’

  Narey sighed heavily. ‘Great.’

  ‘Are these cases connected, ma’am?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Becca. I wish I did but I don’t. But at least it looks like I didn’t lie to DCI Addison after all. This urbexing website that you mentioned?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Give me a note of the web address. I think I need to go do some surfing of my own.’

  Chapter 23

  Narey laid the photographs out on Addison’s desk and watched with decidedly mixed feelings as the DCI took it all in.

  Derek Wharton’s broken neck under the great roof of the seminary. Christopher Hart’s shattered body at the foot of the crane. Then David McGlashan’s decomposed remains on the floorboards of the saw works, light streaming onto it from attic windows. For good measure, she’d added Winter’s photographs from the Molendinar and the Odeon.

  He studied them unhappily then looked up at her. ‘So you’re telling me you might have five cases here.’ ‘No, I’m telling you I might have one case. Five bodies.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Rachel, how sure are you of any of this? I don’t see a whole lot in the way of firm evidence linking these.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Of course I’m not. But it’s enough to think there’s something there. Enough to have me work this as if they are or might be connected. You’ve got to leave me on the Odeon.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything,’ he snapped. ‘Okay, talk me through your thinking. Convince me.’

  Convince you or convince myself, she wondered. She was letting him think she was a step further down that line than she actually felt. There was something there. She just didn’t know how to play it. For now, she was making it up as she went along.

  ‘Okay, for a start these are too much of a coincidence for us to ignore. That wouldn’t make any sense. I’ve done some research and I need to do more. All urbexing sites. Places where people shouldn’t be. Unpoliced, out of the way, unguarded. Maybe a good place to leave bodies, which might bring us back to Bobby Mullen. Maybe someone senses that the people who go there are vulnerable. Maybe it’s an opportunity. Maybe it’s something else altogether but there is a connection. I just need time to find it.’

  He looked down and studied the photographs again. The waiting made her want to scream. At last, he looked up at her, shaking his head.

  ‘Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m taking over both cases. You answer to me. So does Rico. He’ll take part of this.’

  She said nothing but her face said plenty.

  ‘Rachel, it’s the best I can do if you want to run both sides of this. If these are all linked then it’s above your pay scale. If they’re not then Storey and Rico get the Odeon. You still think they’re linked?’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘Okay. Then you have a choice to make. You are not taking all this on yourself. It makes no sense and is a bad use of resources. You understand me? You can work this urbexing wild goose chase or you can keep after the owners of the Rosewood or you can take on Saturn. Not all three. You can have the choice because they were yours first.’

  ‘Gee thanks.’

  ‘Rachel . . .’

  She had to decide and she had to do it quickly. The thought of giving any of it up was tough - once she got her teeth into an investigation she was always loath to let go. Kilgannon and Wells were dirty, she’d no doubt about that. The same for the property company Saturn and Mullen. But going for either of those effectively meant choosing one case over the other. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do that. Hell, she could think of no other way.

  ‘Okay, let Rico run with Saturn. I’ll get Jacko to bring Rico up to speed on what he’s said. I’ll go with the wild geese. I’ll take the urbexing angle.’

  ‘You sure? This is going to ramp up the pressure on you with every doubter out there.’

  ‘I’m sure. But that still leaves me with Bobby Mullen because—’

  ‘Jesus, no! I’ll need to talk to Ken Bryson at Organized Crime and run this past him. If we end up stepping on his toes then he’ll have my balls for shooting practice. You stay away from Mullen.’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll have the Odeon victim’s husband, as that falls within my remit.’

  ‘Within your . . .’ He shook his head at her again. ‘Fine. Do it. I get the feeling I’ve just been had but I’m not sure how.’

  Chapter 24

  It never got any easier to tell someone that a loved one was dead. Not for Narey anyway. She knew cops who gave the impression that they’d become inured to it over time but she wasn’t sure she believed them. Nor did she think it was right. Every time you knocked on someone’s door to tell them that a loved one had died should feel like it did the first time. It would always feel like the first time to the person you were talking to and you should be the same.

  Identifying the body had, for once, been as simple as checking recent missing person reports. Jennifer Cairns, a forty-three-year-old interior designer, was last seen on the evening of 10 September. Her description fitted the victim and so did
the date. Dental records had already been requested in case the worst had happened. It had. A match had been confirmed that afternoon and now she and Becca Maxwell were about to deliver the news.

  This time it wasn’t to be a door of anyone’s home but rather an office and that made it more awkward. She could perhaps have waited until the close of business hours but this case was cold enough and she wanted to get her teeth into it without delay.

  Cairns and McCormack, Architects, had a floor to themselves in an ornate sandstone building in Hope Street, not far from Central Station. It looked faded grandeur from the outside but was very different once they pushed through the double doors to get in. It screamed design and trying too hard. All black and white with expanses of bare wall broken only by a couple of statement pieces that were as obscure as they were surely expensive. This was an office of people who wanted you to know they were worth the money.

  There were maybe five people in the office, all dressed in black as if they were already in mourning. A girl of no more than eighteen greeted her by the front door and asked if she could help them.

  ‘I’m hoping to speak to Mr Cairns,’ Narey told her.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  By way of answer, she held up her warrant card. ‘I don’t but it’s urgent. Is he in?’

  The girl paled and lost all composure. ‘I’m not . . . I don’t think so. He was . . . let me check with Mr McCormack.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll come with you.’

  ‘I should . . . well, um, of course.’

  She led them towards the back of the room where two inner offices had been created by frosted black walls. She knocked on the door of one of them and a man’s voice called for her to enter. The assistant opened the door and Narey followed her inside before she had the chance to close it, Maxwell taking her cue and slipping inside with her. Flustered, the girl tried to explain but Narey cut her off.

  ‘Mr McCormack? I’m DI Narey of Police Scotland, this is DC Maxwell. Could we have a word, please? In private.’

  Consternation clouded the man’s face and he instinctively got out of his seat. He was in his mid-thirties, six foot tall with fair hair and dressed in a black suit and dark grey shirt and tie.

  ‘What’s happened? I mean, yes, of course. Chloe, could you leave us, please? Unless, do either of you want anything? Water? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  McCormack nodded and the girl closed the door behind her.

  ‘What is it, DI . . . Sorry, I don’t . . .’

  ‘Narey. I was hoping to speak to your partner. Is Mr Cairns in the building?’

  ‘No, he’s . . . Is it about Jennifer? It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Mr McCormack. I need to—’

  ‘Jesus. Have you found her? He’ll be so happy. This has been . . .’ He stopped short, reading the sombre look on Narey’s face.

  ‘Do you know where Mr Cairns is, sir?’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Mr McCormack, I’m sorry but I really am not able to tell you anything. Where can I find your partner?’

  The man didn’t seem to know whether to be angry or sad. ‘He’s gone to see a client then he’s heading straight home. Why can’t you just tell me? She and Douglas are my friends as well as him being my partner. Christ, why didn’t you call ahead? You missed him by less than an hour. He needs to know now, whatever it is.’

  The truth was she’d wanted to turn up unannounced. It wasn’t that she suspected the husband but she wouldn’t rule it out. Always look close to home, Johnny Jackson had taught her. She wanted to see the man’s reaction without him being prepared for it. Heartless maybe but policing was a practical business.

  ‘I have his home address and we can go there now. How long is his meeting likely to take?’

  McCormack scrambled at his sleeve to look at his watch. ‘I’d think he’d be home in about an hour, maybe slightly less. Let me call him and tell him to meet you.’

  ‘No! I must ask you not to do that, sir. I need to speak to Mr Cairns personally and it will be far from helpful if someone talks to him first, particularly without access to the facts.’

  The man’s eyes challenged her but not for long. He sat back in his black-leather chair and held his head in his hands before looking up again.

  ‘Okay, Detective Inspector, I won’t. But please, go easy on him. He’s not been himself at all since Jen disappeared and I’m not sure how much more he can take. If he comes across as . . . well, maybe confrontational, then forgive him. He’s really not like that.’

  ‘In what way has he not been himself?’

  McCormack hesitated, seemingly reluctant to say any more.

  ‘Anything you can tell me will allow us to be better informed when talking to Mr Cairns.’

  He gave a heavy sigh. ‘He’s been drinking. It’s understandable given what he’s been through but I think he’s been hitting it pretty hard. He’s normally very easy-going but lately . . . well he’s been short-tempered, argumentative. It’s really not what he’s like.’

  ‘Has he talked much about what he thinks happened to his wife?’

  A change came across McCormack’s face and he got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry but I think I’ve said enough. You won’t tell me what’s happened and yet you’re trying to pump me for information about my partner. I’m not going to give you that. Not until you’ve spoken to him and not until I have to.’

  Narey nodded. ‘Fine. I respect that. Thanks for your time, Mr McCormack. And please, do not phone Mr Cairns. I’d have to regard it as obstructing a police officer and that wouldn’t be helpful for anyone.’

  Narey knocked, Maxwell beside her, and waited for Douglas Cairns to answer. It struck her that perhaps he’d been waiting on that knock for nearly seven weeks.

  The door pulled back and she saw the man immediately work out what she was and why she was there. He hadn’t been tipped off by McCormack though: this was the shock of the expected.

  He was in his early fifties, a dark beard turned silver at the chin and more flecks of age through his shoulder-length hair. With bleary, stressed eyes, he looked like he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in those seven weeks and she doubted that he’d get one tonight.

  ‘Mr Cairns?’

  ‘You’ve found her. She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘May we come inside, sir?’

  ‘Is she dead? Tell me!’

  She deliberated and decided the kinder thing was to tell him there and then. ‘Yes, sir. She is. I’m sorry. I do think we should go inside.’

  The man stared at the ground at his feet, seeing nothing. He slowly lifted his head and nodded without being able to look at them. ‘Come in.’

  They followed the man into the large apartment on South Frederick Street on the corner of George Square. He led them into an expansive, modernist, open-plan room with three huge arched windows on the far wall. It was very different to the A-listed traditional stone exterior but maybe not that surprising given that Cairns was an architect.

  The man slumped into a seat and stared into space some more. Narey and Maxwell took seats opposite him without waiting to be asked and gave him the time he needed. Once or twice his head came up and he looked at them as if ready to ask questions but didn’t dare.

  ‘Mr Cairns, I know this is difficult but I need to tell you what happened to your wife. And I will need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?’

  He nodded dumbly.

  ‘A woman’s body was found yesterday in a city centre building not far from here. We have made dental comparisons against your wife’s records and they confirm that it is her. We shall make further tests but we have no doubt that it is your wife.’

  ‘What happened to her? What building? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your wife suffered severe head injuries. As yet, we don’t know for sure how they came about. The building was the former Odeon cinema on Renfield Street. A workman found her body. It had
evidently been there for some time.’

  She watched his reaction, seeing his head swing from side to side and his forehead crease. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. The Odeon? But that’s been closed for years. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It was due to be demolished. Do you have any idea at all why your wife would have been there?’

  He became angry. ‘What? No! None whatsoever. This doesn’t make any sense.’

  Narey glanced at Maxwell and she took the hint, speaking for the first time since they’d gone inside.

  ‘Mr Cairns, would you mind telling us the circumstances of your wife going missing? We know you’ve made a report but it would be helpful if you could tell us in your own words what happened.’

  ‘I’ve told your people all this already! Who did this to her?’

  ‘Please, Mr Cairns,’ Maxwell persisted. ‘It will help us to hear it from you.’

  He just looked back at her for a while as if not understanding, pulling at his beard and rubbing fiercely at the silver on his chin. He jumped from his seat and went to an oak sideboard where he poured himself a large whisky from a decanter and took a mouthful. Then, seemingly calmer, he sat down again.

  ‘It was a Wednesday evening and Jennifer, my wife, was going to meet a client in the West End. Kensington Gate. She left around six and she never came back. I’d fallen asleep maybe about eleven and when I woke she still wasn’t home. I called her mobile but didn’t get an answer. I wasn’t pleased. In fact I was annoyed, more annoyed than worried. I went back to sleep and in the morning she still wasn’t there. I called her mobile again but got no answer. I had to go to the office and gave it till lunchtime before I called the police. I’d tried to call her another three times and got nothing. Staying out late wasn’t unusual but overnight, without at least a text message, she’d never done that.’

  ‘Who was the client she was going to see?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’d told me it was Kensington Gate and that it was potentially a big job. If she told me the name I didn’t listen or didn’t remember. I checked her diary and she didn’t have it listed.’